Love makes a demand of us when it is witnessed. I am and that of those you now join who were also taken, for as reminded of this every time I see a picture of you, of your smile.

On that night, in that car, before the final breath left your body, you saw the gun before they did and your immediate instinct was to protect, to love. “Duck!” you yelled to your brothers, Vidal and Kevon, and then used your own body as a shield. In that moment, you made a commitment to save even when you could not save yourself.

We all dream of knowing a love like this — so powerful that it liberates us, so fearless that it humbles us, so pure that it reminds us of our purpose. We are not always fortunate to encounter this kind of love in a lifetime. But you, you lived and died in the spirit of this love.

From you, I’ve learned that love is the act of following through on the commitments we make to ourselves and to each other. And that love must be rooted in equity, in the belief that each person deserves that which allows them to thrive. It is now our responsibility to live in this same spirit, to make and keep promises to ourselves and each other rooted in equity and joy.

“Smiley” they called you, I’ve been told. Poems, pictures, and notes covered your locker in the days following your absence. And the world began to ask questions about why you were taken and demand answers from the institution that took you.

To those who perpetuate and benefit from the trauma we endure, the trauma that took you from us, we yell, “No justice, no peace” in protest, knowing that the absence of justice makes peace an impossibility. Protest is the act of telling the truth in public. And we will tell the truth of your life and your love, and that of those you now join who were also taken, for as long as the sun continues to rise.

“Social justice,” then, is a redundant phrase, as there is no justice that is not social. Justice that is not rooted in equity, in social welfare, and in community is not justice at all. In a just world, you would be here today.

In your case, we have tried to make sense of the senseless. We have tried to find reason in the irrational. We have tried to remember your innocence, your life, without sadness, and that we, those of us left behind, are, and have always been, more than our pain. In blackness, we’ve become experts at saying goodbye.

But I will not say goodbye to you, not here. Because the demand that your love requires remains. From your teammates, your parents, your brothers, your friends, and — though we never met — from me. We do not know the future and cannot promise that it will be easy. But we can commit to loving like you loved, letting our joy out into the world despite its challenges, understanding justice in action as our collective goal.

In many ways, you are still with us, and it is understanding this that has slowed the tears, for now. In you, I see many other young black boys and girls with the world at their feet. We know that this world failed you. But it did not steal your joy or your love. It tried, but it failed. You carried with you a joy bigger than this world, so big that even when the world was unable to protect you, you showed it your best self.